


Happy Birthday

by genderbeast



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Birthday, Cake, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genderbeast/pseuds/genderbeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A middle-aged man sits in his car. While it was 13 years ago that his life changed forever, it is only today that he really thinks about all that happened. What will he do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I have ever written for any fandom, ever. Hopefully you can't tell.

Your name is JONATHAN P. EGBERT SR. and something is seriously up with your son.

Well, you’re not quite sure of that, either. You suppose he’s always been that way. Just recently, however, you’ve begun to notice his odd habits of drawing on his walls. Of course, you shouldn’t have been in his room to begin with (God knows how many times you two have discussed it) but you’ve been told that in order to be a good parent one must always be in check with their child/children.

Some of the things on their kind of surprised you, though. For as long as he’s been able to use a crayon, Junior kept drawing these clown/ jester creatures on every piece of paper he could find, save your cherished joke book. It was all innocent, of course, but as he grew even more, he began writing things. Things like “loser”, or “dweeb”, sometimes getting as rude as “retard” or “douchebag”. He had never talked you about bullying or school, so you just assumed everything was fine…up until now. 

Now it’s his thirteenth birthday, or at least the date that you found him in the wreckage of the wrecked bookstore, and you realize that he doesn’t know anything about where he came from, or that you technically aren’t related to him, or where his mother is, or if he has a mother. Is that why he gets so upset? Perhaps that’s the reason why you can’t talk to each other without getting awkward. It’s your fault, isn’t it? Damn it.

Even though it’s probably not the right place and time, as you drive home from work, cake and presents in the back of the car, you begin to set up the conversation in your mind as you expect it to happen. 

“Son, have I ever told you about the day you were born?”

“No, not particularly.”

“Well, son, you technically weren’t. I found you on a meteor.”

SHIT. That’s certainly not it. Maybe you should tell him about that warm, spring day, the day you walked with your frail mother to the bookstore to meet who you thought would be your beautiful wife, ready to propose in front of what family was available. God, you were so eager to show her that woman, that smart, funny, tall and witty astrologer city-slicker whom you were completely infatuated with.

Then you couldn’t find her. 

Roxanne, your love, was she not there? Did she just mess with you? All those rumors of her being a flighty (if not an extremely intelligent) broad, were they true? You left your mother over at a bookshelf where she was studying a copy of a book that you already had. Why, you have no clue, but that wasn’t important. You needed to find her, and fast.

You ran outside. You saw the flicker of that scarf you loved so much. Bright pink. Then red. Lots of red. So much red and orange and yellow and a loud boom. Where the bookstore (and your mother) should’ve been is a huge crater. 

“…and in the middle of that crater was you, John.”

Should you include the bit about Roxanne? That’d be an awful idea. Hell, would John even believe you if you told him the truth with the crash? You just seem stuck. Still, you should tell him. He is, hopefully at this point, able to find the notes you left him, just like your Grampy Sass used to do with you.

Thinking about the crash reminds you of Roxanne. Where was she now? Last you heard of her, she was back in New York with a child of her own. She’s probably a great mother, you think. Or not. You’re not quite sure. You just hope that she’s happy with her child and her presumed husband. God, whoever had the chance to marry her is probably the luckiest dude in the world. You try not to get distracted by the thoughts of her and continue driving.

You decide to change your focus on what you did get: a son. A young boy, clutching a book that you haven’t seen in the longest time, fast asleep and unharmed in a pile of shrapnel. A boy with a knack for piano, an instrument you forgot how to play long ago. Someone who could read at three, and would tug at your shirt to read you his favorite joke about the chicken and the balcony. A loving, honest, optimistic boy who didn’t care how boring you were. One that shared your name, your home; he was your everything. He still is, really.

Soon, though, he changed. He began writing those insults, desecrating the posters he collected of those old movies. Crushing CDs, throwing his favorite harlequin doll across his bedroom, you name it. He just grew angry, and you can’t help but think that he’s angry at you and your job and house and everything that you’ve done. Did you do enough? Was it ever enough? Even putting up the clown pictures, sending him a chocolate cupcake in his lunch box on Wednesday, he still just seemed…well, pissed. He’s calmed down now (thank God), but you’ve decided to be much more careful around him. You don’t want him to hate you; you’ve seen how close you’ve gotten to that point.

You’re now reaching the parking lot of your house, and you try to ignore the clutter in the front yard. All you want to do right now is get in the house, give him his cake and presents, and possibly talk to him about what being thirteen entails. The life story comes later. Maybe he’ll ask about it in a week or so; maybe not. It’s his choice, isn’t it?

As you grab the cake and the box, you think about what you got him. You know how much he loves those Gushers of his; in fact, he seems to love anything that sweet old Betty Crocker makes. Perhaps he picked that up when you told him about Nanna. You think back to your own youth, getting a tour of the factory that would be yours when she passed away. Of course, that was struck down by meteors before John was found, so no chance of that happening. Regardless, you hope he appreciates the cake you made from his favorite cake mix, Funfetti. Last time, he pretended he didn’t want any; catching him sneak into the kitchen and shoving the entire cake in his face, however, spoke otherwise.

You close the door to your car and walk to the steps, goodies in hand. You are so proud of your son, but you hope that one day he’ll stop writing awful things on the wall about himself, or dislike everything you do. Maybe he’ll realize how important he is to you, and how hard you’re trying at your measly job to support him and get him what he needs. He is a huge part of your life, and you just wish that he feels the same way. Maybe shoes and a cake won’t be the answer, but maybe it’ll help.

You step inside and head to the kitchen, waiting to talk to the birthday boy . You visualize his excitement, or at least his slight interest in the things you got him. Hopefully he’ll eat the cake, or try on his shoes, or maybe say thank you. Maybe he’ll ignore you. One thing is for certain, though, and nothing will change this.

You, JONATHAN P. EGBERT SR., love your son. And you can’t wait to tell him.


End file.
